On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

They wended their way through the guests, then Martin twined his fingers with hers and drew her into the mouth of a corridor. "Let's leave this madness. The library's this way-there won't be anyone there yet."

Feeling a touch giddy, she acquiesced. He led her down the dimly lit corridor, then opened a door, looked in, then waved her in.

The library was a medium-sized room, comfortably furnished with chaises before the fire and a handsome desk at the other end. A lighted candelabra stood on a table between the chaises, its glow illuminating a silver tray set with decanters and glasses waiting for the older gentlemen who would gravitate here as the evening wore on.

At present, however, the library was blissfully empty.

Amanda breathed in, then exhaled on a sigh. She felt Martin's gaze on her, felt her nerves prickle, then tense. Eschewing the chaises as potentially dangerous, she strolled to the desk. She halted before it, her gaze drawn to the bookshelves behind it. "This library is nothing like yours."

"No?" Humor echoed in his voice as he prowled in her wake. "How so?"

"It lacks color." She turned, and found him all but breast to chest with her, a familiar sensual glint in his moss-green eyes, a taunting tilt to his lips.

"Just the color?" he murmured.

She felt all three words. Reaching up, she twined her arms about his neck. "That, and a few other amenities."

She drew his lips to hers, confident-determined. The chaises were too far away; with the desk at her back, indulging in one, albeit lengthy kiss was safe. A kiss to further whet his appetite, to appease hers. She was hungry, hungry for all they were doing without because of his stubbornness, and hers.

He was hungry, too, perfectly ready to sink into her mouth, to take, to claim, at her invitation. His hands fastened about her waist, holding her steady as he angled his head and feasted. As eager as he, she gave herself up to it-reveled in the heated exchange. Urged him on, confident the situation limited the possibilities. If she wanted to tempt him to give her all, she needed to remind him of what he would gain when he did.

When his hands eased their grip, then rose to her breasts, she exulted. Felt the leap of her pulse, the sudden surge of yearning, saw no need to hide it. Let the need pour through her, glorying in the heady tide of desire, pressed her lips to his and let him sense it, then fractionally drew back, taunting him, challenging him.

He kissed her voraciously; his hands closed, kneading, then through the fine silk of her gown, his fingers found her nipples, closed, squeezed. She gasped, drew back from the kiss, arched her head back; she'd forgotten the intensity, the sheer sensual force. His lips traced the line of her throat, then returned to capture hers again. To pull her ruthlessly back into the fire and the rising flames.

Martin had intended to go slowly, to coax her into passion, to guide her along the road to sensual desire, and its ultimate satisfaction. To lay before her all the splendors like the expert he was, a king wooing his queen, to show her the beauties of the landscape that together they could travel.

He hadn't counted on her fire, on the rush of desire and passion that rose at his touch, welled and poured through their kiss. Hadn't calculated on the arousing effect of her fingers sliding through his hair, then gripping, wordlessly evocative. Hadn't anticipated his own response.

She drove him giddy. Drove him wild.

His lungs locked; suddenly, he could think of nothing beyond the moment of having her, the incredible sensation of sinking into her willing body and feeling her clamp, hot and wet, about him.

He wanted-that, her-with a simple, uncomplicated, ravenous hunger utterly unlike his characteristic elan and all the more powerful for that.

Powerful enough to send his hands skating over her, eager to possess. To repossess, to have again. Devastating enough for his lips to devour hers, to claim her mouth in a primitive prelude. Gripping her waist, he lifted her to sit on the desk, pushing back her skirts, pressing her knees apart.

Gentleness had flown; neither he nor she minded.

Quite the opposite.

One hand was beneath her skirts, frothed up between them, fingers sliding, sinking, over and over, repetitively probing the slick heat of her sheath, all to her urgent murmurs, to the thunder in their veins, when the door latch clicked.

Unsurpassed instincts, lightning-fast reflexes had saved him in the past.

By the time the door swung open, he was concealed behind a Chinese screen that stood five feet from the desk. Slumped against the bookshelves, his chest hea

ving, his pulse pounding in his ears-Amanda clutched against him, one hand clamped over her lips to stifle her indignant protest. One with which he fervently agreed.

From beyond the screen came silence, then: "This is the library."

They both recognized the voice, both held their breath.

Footsteps entered the room. After a moment, Lady Jersey inquired, somewhat disgruntled, "Now what?"

Above his hand, Amanda's eyes were huge. She tugged his hand from her face, mouthed, "Who?"

Martin shook his head slightly. Wondered how long they could stand as they were without making the slightest sound. The faintest rustle.